This is the wordiest chapter, I promise.
Dean knew he shouldn't have left the Impala with Sam. So the kid had practically begged him, and there was no way he could afford his own car, so what? At least if the Impala'd gotten a flat, he could've popped on the spare. Even if Dean was so broke he couldn't afford new tires or a friggin oil change at Jiffy Lube, his baby always made a damn fine bed, had roof to keep the rain out.
He gave the tank of his bike a pat. Okay, maybe that wasn't fair, to call the Impala his baby like that, not right here while he was sitting on the Harley. Even silently, he didn't want to inspire any sibling rivalry that would make the situation any worse. But shit, he was cold.
It was late Spring and Dean was caught somewhere in the bumfuck woods of Appalachia, on the side of a narrow, quiet highway, waiting for just one charitable tourist to come by and notice his distress. It was a pathetic, but not all that new, situation for him, not knowing quite where he was, unprepared for the complete lack of cell signal in the middle of nowhere, alone and helpless. In fact, it was something he usually kind of considered fun when it didn't last too long. Of course, he'd been sitting here listening to the birds for almost an hour, and he was actually starting to feel like the situation might be a bit ridiculous. Just how lost was he?
Then, there it was, like the sound of rain coming after a long drought (well, maybe not that dramatic, he just had rain on the brain). Dean jumped off the seat of the bike, jogging the few feet back to the road, and looking down each end of the stretch until he spotted the origin of that engine growl. Finally, way down the direction he'd come from so long ago, a truck began to appear, coming around the curve. It was the first time Dean had even entertained the thought of harsh redneck stereotypes, because after an hour with no traffic the first thing he saw was a boxy, ancient, rusting Ford truck, with an engine that sounded more and more like an earthquake the closer it got. It was slowing down before he realized it, and he was stepping back to the bike as it ambled onto the shoulder in front of him.
It idled there, Dean not really sure how to approach the situation, suddenly feeling a little weird about being from out west, and about this being his first real south-east experience. Fortunately, the man whose head suddenly emerged from the driver side window didn't look like he went with the truck in the least.
"Hey, are you alright?" Okay, the voice was a little weird. Not southern, but almost as rough as the sound of the truck's engine. Seriously, was the tailpipe spewing diesel or something? He shook his head with a grin. Weird shit like this was why he lived for the road. He strode up to the truck, wariness replaced by interest with a quick thrill of adrenaline.
"I had a blowout, and I can't get a signal on my phone," he explained. Close up, the guy was pale, not quite clean shaven, and his black hair was sticking up in a shit ton of angles, all of which screamed "I just had sex." Maybe not an appropriate thought just now. An elbow hooked over the door, he raised one dark eyebrow at Dean.
"Your tire went out on the straight away and you managed to get it over to the shoulder?" he looked past Dean, presumably to where his Harley was parked, neat and pretty even if its back end was leaning low. Dean grinned sheepishly, only a little impressed with himself, and mostly feeling damn lucky about that one.
"Yeah, it was a Christmas miracle, dude," he answered. The guy actually smirked, and Dean found himself grinning.
"Well I can give you a lift to a decent mechanic. I might be the last person coming down this way for a while," he finally offered. Dean craned his neck to the bed of the truck, seeing that it was conveniently empty.
"I'd really appreciate it, man," replied, finally deciding to go with it. Not that he really had another option.
"No problem. Happy to help," the guy said, finally turning off that loud ass engine and getting out of the truck. The door opened with creak and shut with a scraping sound. Dean couldn't help himself if he gave the guy a once over, taking in the muddy steel-toed boots, the worn out jeans and the completely incongruous red t-shirt emblazoned with a picture of The Smiths, the side of Morrissey's face just hardly covered by the edge of a blue flannel shirt. Dean could've winced but he restrained himself, and just unzipped his leather jacket. At least he felt like he could kick the guy's ass if he turned out to be some kind of weirdo. He followed the Smiths fan to the back of the truck and watched him drop open the tailgate and reach into the bed, sliding out a mud-crusted aluminum ramp and dropping its edge to the ground.
"I hardly ever use this thing," the guy said conversationally.
"Yeah, it is kind of crazy how lucky it is that you came along with this truck," Dean replied, a little weirded out by the turn of events, and a little amazed that this guy just happened to have a high-end, care-worn loading ramp installed in the back of his ancient truck. But, stranger things had happened.
"Do you need help rolling it over?" Miracle Truck Man asked.
"Getting it onto the bed, probably," Dean called back as he jogged over to his second baby, kicked up the kickstand and pushed her wobbling bulk around to the back of the truck. Truck Guy lifted himself onto the bed of the truck with more ease than his kind of slim frame seemed capable of. Dean pushed the heavy Road King most of the way up the ramp and Sex Hair pulled it the rest, managing to maneuver it gently onto its side in a way that it wouldn't have too much trouble with the rough truck bed. Dean wasn't going to complain about a lack of straps at this point. He hopped back down to stow the ramp and shut the tailgate. He immediately went back to the cab, and Dean followed his lead, clambering into the passenger seat as the engine whined before it turned over and finally roared to life again.
"Hey, I'm Dean, by the way," he said, pulling off a driving glove to offer a hand to his savior.
"Cas," the man replied, taking his hand slowly but shaking it firmly. For some reason, it took Dean a while to pull away. Cas was immediately back to putting the truck in gear and getting them back on the road.
"That short for something? Like Casanova?" Dean asked over the growl of the engine. He was rewarded with that smirk again.
"It's short for Castiel," he answered, not bothering to look at Dean. Dean knew that the scenery around here was really something, but he couldn't seem to get his eyes off Castiel and to a window.
"What kind of name is that?" Dean asked. It wasn't exactly the first name that came to mind for country folk.
"I was named after an angel." Oh, well. Bible belt. That made more sense. Dean was immediately prepared to back pedal. He was an atheist and not great at lying about it.
"Don't worry, I'm a pretty passive bible thumper," Castiel deadpanned, "I mean, you noticed the rosary hanging from the rearview, right?" His tone was so dry that Dean's eyes actually flicked to the mirror, even though he knew there was nothing swaying there except for an old faded strawberry-shaped air freshener. Dean snorted.
"You don't really sound like you're from around here," he remarked.
"Neither do you," Castiel answered easily, his tone flat but somehow friendly. Dean was a little bewildered. Nothing about this guy made a whole lot of sense. He was good looking, if a little nerdy, driving a truck fit for a coon hunter, wearing a shirt that announced his love of whiny chick music, and quicker than a whip crack. Not exactly what he was expecting to find the first time he met a local out here. Fortunately, Castiel took pity on him.
"I'm originally from New Mexico. My family moved out here when I was in middle school," he explained. Alright, then the angel name was either a Catholic thing or a hippie thing. Dean could deal with that. Castiel glanced over at him.
"What about you? First time east?"
Dean nodded, impressed. "Yeah, actually."
Castiel gave a rough chuckle. "Someone tell you what a good ride it is up here?"
Dean shrugged. "Didn't have anything going on, thought I might check it out." He smirked, "Shoulda known better than to trust a harmless old country road."
Castiel laughed. "No, this place'll chew you up if you're not careful."
Dean nodded, not sure how to take that. But, looking over at Castiel, he just looked kind of satisfied about it. Either he'd avoided the chewing or he liked it in the belly of the beast.
Then Dean realized they were stopping, Castiel downshifting with a screeching and growling of gears, and bringing them to a masterfully smooth stop in front of an open garage. It wasn't a big shop, just a couple of bays, set back into a tree-crowded hill, a little attached office with a big window and a lot of oil stains and scraps littered around. "Singer Auto" was painted in fading black letters across the top of the concrete facade.
Dean's driver left the truck on this time as he hopped out, and Dean was quick to follow.
"Just tell Bobby I found you out on Newfound Road and he'll do what he can. Might be a little rough at first, but he's a good man," Castiel said as he helped Dean get the Harley back out of the truck. Dean appreciated the way he handled the big bike with confidence and care, and couldn't help being a little amused at the seriousness with which he described his friend. All too soon, Dean was standing next to his Road King and watching Castiel slam the tailgate and wipe his hands on his jeans. That damn Smiths shirt, Dean thought. What a weird guy. He didn't even know he was grinning and staring until Castiel grinned back.
"Good luck with the bike. I hope this hasn't turned you off the area; tourism is our main industry out here," even though his tone was dry, Dean could tell he was making a joke. A bad one, but that's what it was.
"Nah, I'm already having a good time," he answered. Despite his bad fortune and the expenses ahead of him, it was true. Castiel paused.
"Good," he nodded. It was almost awkward, mostly because it wasn't. "Take care, Dean. Maybe I'll see you around." Dean knew it wasn't likely, the way he said it told him as much, but he did like the idea more than he probably should. He watched him get back into the truck, the door creaking and scraping shut.
"Thanks a million, Cas!" he called, and he knew it had carried over the sound of the engine and through the window when Castiel turned to him with the sexiest, smuggest smirk Dean had ever seen before quickly reversing and finally driving off.
Dean felt like he might as well have laid his bike down when that tire blew, scraped down a mile of highway and parked himself in the middle of tree, because that's about as raw as he was feeling.
"Hey, you lookin' fer something?" somebody barked, and Dean whirled around. There was a grime-streaked, bearded old man wearing a glare and a trucker hat and staring straight at Dean.
"Yeah, sorry, I need a little help with my bike," he answered.
"What you standin' over there fer, then?" Dean shrugged and the man rolled his eyes dramatically. "Well, come on, idjit, roll that poor sucker over here, and don't make me wait all day." The man who Dean thought was definitely Bobby waved a hand lazily and turned to disappear back into the garage, muttering what sounded like, "Dad blam tourists." Dean smirked, remembering what Cas had said. Definitely a little rough.